


I Wanted You to Hear it From Me

by FluffyBeaumont



Category: Shetland (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blue Eyes, Comfort Sex, Drunken Kissing, Duncan Will Fuck Anything, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Needy, Feel-good, Finger Sucking, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Need, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Sad Sandy is Sad, Switching, Tenderness, needy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:28:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27294205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyBeaumont/pseuds/FluffyBeaumont
Summary: Takes place at the end of Season 5 of Shetland. Sandy is suspended and under investigation for the death of Calum Dunwoody on his watch. He and Jenny are quits; he may have lost his job and is in very real danger of a criminal investigation for wrongful death. What's left to lose? Not a whole hell of a lot.Then along comes Duncan...
Relationships: Duncan Hunter/Sandy Wilson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 10





	I Wanted You to Hear it From Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [coldlikedeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldlikedeath/gifts).



> This is a standalone work in which Duncan and Jimmy aren't yet a couple, and Duncan has just been given the boot by Mary.  
> I've deliberately messed about with the timing of Season 5 and put it in the winter, and made Jenny and Sandy's breakup come immediately before he's suspended from his job. I wanted Sandy to be wet and miserable, wandering about Lerwick when he's picked up by Duncan. Shivering men being peeled out of their wet clothes by other men? Total kink.  
> For coldlikedeath, who encouraged me. ;-)

It had been raining forever, or so it seemed, and he had been walking forever, even though there was nowhere to go, not really. He had no proper home, nowhere to lay his head. He’d long since left his father’s house on Whalsay, ever since Mima’s death several years before drove a wedge between them. His father hadn’t said anything exactly, but a cold wall had erected itself between them, and Sandy no longer felt welcome in the home he’d grown up in. When he met Jenny, she seemed like a sure thing, but their relationship had gone sour quicker than spilled milk under the summer sun, and that was that. He’d come home off a midnight shift to find all his things neatly packed and waiting on her doorstep, with a note pinned to the door: DON’T COME IN.

Calum Dunwoody’s death had, it seemed, put the final nail in his personal coffin. He should have known. Fuck, he should have _known_ not to leave the man a pen, and what did Dunwoody do but use the fucking thing to⸻

Jimmy’s eyes had been sad, and his voice was hushed when he informed Sandy about the investigation and all the rest of it. _I’m sorry,_ Jimmy said. _I really am, Sandy._ But Sandy wasn’t interested in his platitudes or his soul-saving guilt. Jimmy sure as hell wasn’t the one out on his arse, with nowhere to go, walking the streets of Lerwick in the chilly winter rain.

Alexander Wilson was the reason Calum Dunwoody was dead, and that was the whole and total truth of it.

He’d been walking for hours, blind and insensible to pain of any sort, emotional or otherwise, when he stumbled into The Lounge and ordered a pot of tea, something to warm his bones. He’d no idea what time it was, but supposed he’d best be finding somewhere to spend the night before Tosh or Billy happened along and took pity on him, offered him their sofa for the night. God, he’d die of shame if either of them saw him like this, and it only went to show you what an unnatural fever of embarrassment he was in, that he’d even stepped foot in The Lounge in the first place.

“Sandy!” Morag Stephenson was a local schoolteacher, but fortunately not at the school where Jenny’s kids had gone or else she’d have known the entire sordid story of their breakup. “Haven’t seen you in ages. How are you?”

“Oh, perfect,” he lied, reaching to dash the water from his face with his fingers. “Coming down in buckets out there the night.” He fumbled in his pocket for something to wipe his face with, found nothing. Morag no doubt pitied the state of him, for she passed across a clean bar towel. “Thanks,” he said, wincing.

“What’ll it be?” Morag asked, when he’d dried his face and passed the towel back across to her. “Whisky?”

“Only if you’ll put some tea around it.” 

“That I can absolutely do,” she replied. “If I might say, you could confine your nocturnal wanderings to a warmer night than this. The met office says there’ll be snow before morning. What are you doing out on a night like this, anyway?” 

Ignoring her question, he said, “Can you bring a pot of tea and a double whisky to that wee table in the corner?” 

“Of course. Are you meeting somebody?”

_Oh, absolutely,_ he wanted to say, _everyone in Lerwick is just gagging to get close to Sandy Wilson, Shetland’s favourite fuck-up._ But that would have sounded self-pitying, and he wasn’t traveling that road these days. “Yes,” he replied, and turned away before she could ask anything else. It was only concern for his welfare that encouraged her questions in the first place, but nothing stayed secret in Shetland for very long, and he really didn’t want to have another conversation about Why Jenny and I Split Up. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and laid it across the back of the chair nearest the radiator before sitting down. He had no idea what time it was⸻late, certainly because there was hardly anyone in The Lounge.

“Brought you some buttered toast,” Morag said, arriving at his table with the requested pot of tea and double whisky. “And cheese. You look like you’ve not eaten for a week.” She laid everything down. “Anything else?”

“Thank you,” Sandy said, because he was touched that she cared enough to bring him food, and also because he’d had his manners drilled into him since early childhood. “I think this will do me for now.” 

He had just tucked into the toast and poured the first cup of tea fortified with whisky when the door opened, letting in a gust of wind and icy rain. A man stood in the doorway, every bit as wet and miserable as Sandy was. He stayed rooted to the spot, looking about and blinking like someone just awakened from a walking sleep, then spotted Sandy and made his way over. “Sandy Wilson,” he said. The man was Duncan Hunter. Handsome Duncan Hunter, rich Duncan Hunter, Duncan Hunter with the charmed life and the big fucking house and the fancy fucking foreign car. “Christ, you look like I feel. Mind if I sit down?”

Sandy couldn’t speak for the mouthful of toast, so he gestured at an empty chair. After a moment he said, “Do you know what time it is?”

Duncan stared at him, his mouth slightly open. “Is it a trick question?” 

“I lost my watch,” Sandy said, only just realising it. “I can’t mind where I left it. Did you ever do that?” 

Duncan laughed, but there was no warmth or mirth in it. “I’ve lost more things than I can bear to bring to mind,” he said. He drew a breath that had a sob lost in it somewhere, and Sandy felt a pull of sympathy. “You know my wife left me.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sandy said. “Jenny kicked me out.” 

“What are you drinking?” Duncan asked, looking at the teapot and the double whisky, uncomprehending. 

“Tea,” Sandy replied, “although there’s a fair fucking bit of whisky in it if you must know.” 

Morag came to where they were. “Now, that’s not so bad,” she said, beaming at them both. “Sandy, you just came in and now look who’s here to keep you company. What can I get you, Duncan?” 

Duncan gestured unsteadily at the teapot, Sandy’s plate of toast. “Can I get…what he’s got?” he asked plaintively, like a little boy coming late to a birthday party asking if all the cake was gone. 

“Course,” Morag said, and went to the kitchen to fetch it.

“I saw you out walking,” Duncan said. “I’ve been over to the new bistro, trying to get everything in shape for the opening. Gives me something to do.” His forehead creased with pain, and he attempted to cover it with a smile. “I was in Anderson’s looking at jumpers. Thinking of getting Jimmy one for his birthday. I saw you go by. Then about half an hour later you went by again. I couldn’t puzzle out what you were doing, walking about by yourself. Are you not working this evening?” 

“I’m…” The words stuck in his throat and he hastened to swallow some tea to ease them down. “I’ve been suspended pending investigation.” 

“I’m sorry.” Duncan’s dark green gaze played over Sandy’s features like he was memorising him. “Jimmy always said you were one of the good ones.” All at once he seemed to realise how insulting this sounded, for he rushed to cover it up. “I don’t mean…I mean, you still are, obviously, and I don’t know what any of it’s about, I wasn’t trying to get information, I wouldn’t…” He trailed off, ducked his head. “I’m shite at communicating.” 

Sandy had never seen Duncan so humbled and brought down. It made him inexplicably sad. “I don’t think you are,” he said. He reached out across the table, only just stopped himself touching Duncan’s hand, clenching his fist instead and laying it down on the scarred wooden tabletop. “You’re doing a pretty good job now.” 

****

Duncan had left the house with a fistful of keys and his remaining few personal possessions in a holdall. Mary had made it clear that she was having the locks changed, and he wasn’t to come back, that he was no longer welcome in the house he’d built and paid for, his wedding gift to her. Jimmy had expressed cynical amusement when Duncan showed up asking for the keys to Jimmy’s house and begging for a night or two on the couch. “She’ll come round,” Jimmy said. “She always has before. Whatever you’ve done, eventually she’ll forgive you.” 

“Not this time,” Duncan replied. “She’s met someone else.” He knew he was welcome at Jimmy’s only while Cassie was away. As soon as their daughter came back from university, he would have to shift himself and find somewhere else. And then she had come back and Duncan was glad he’d set up the small apartment above the bistro with some rudimentary furnishings, a bed and a sofa, a fridge and a hob in the kitchen, so he could at least cook breakfast for himself. Maybe it was true what everybody said: screw enough people over and eventually it was you that’d end up getting screwed, only not in the way you wanted.

He was surprised to step into The Lounge at that late hour and find Sandy Wilson sitting at a corner table by himself, drinking tea and whisky and eating buttered toast. He didn’t know Sandy – Alexander – very well, except that he was from Whalsay and Jimmy said he was a really promising young cop with a great future ahead of him, as long as he learned to keep his mouth shut and do what he was told. Duncan had seen Sandy out and about, had spoken to him on the couple of occasions when he’d been shut up in Jimmy’s cells, and Sandy had always been enormously polite and courteous to him. Duncan had appreciated that. Like Jimmy, Sandy had seen him at his absolute worst, but unlike Jimmy, he wasn’t in the habit of throwing it back in Duncan’s face. He was one of the few truly nice people Duncan had ever met…

…and he was fit as fuck. Not that Duncan would ever say this to him…or anyone round Lerwick, for that matter. But it was true. Sandy was tall, and lean, with long legs and a tight, rounded little arse, a flat stomach and broad shoulders. His face was kind and open, with huge blue eyes fringed with dark blond lashes, and his mouth was firm when it had to be, but held the promise of luscious kisses, if you were inclined that way.

Duncan was definitely inclined that way. He often smirked when he thought of the times he and Jimmy Perez had spent together as teenaged boys and young men, clasped together in the same sleeping bag on outings to Unst and Yell to stargaze and watch the auroras. If only the good people of Lerwick knew that Jimmy Perez went both ways, and the façade of grieving widower was true only to a degree. Jimmy hadn’t been lonely after Fran’s death. He’d had Duncan.

He’d been roaming the streets of Lerwick himself tonight, just as Sandy had, and the story about being in Anderson’s looking for a jumper for Jimmy’s birthday was a load of shite. It was mid-December, and Jimmy’s birthday was in April, which Sandy probably knew, only he was too polite to mention the lie. When he passed by The Lounge and saw Sandy Wilson sitting by himself at that corner table, some inexplicable impulse had made him go in. He was glad he did. Sitting here now, across from handsome – no, _beautiful_ young Sandy Wilson, watching entranced as he spoke, as he drank tea with whisky in it, as the warmth of the fire and the alcohol loosened his tongue and sparks kindled in his blue eyes, Duncan was smitten a thousand times over. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asked, and, for all that Sandy sometimes gave the impression of being innocent, he knew immediately what Duncan meant.

“I do.”

Duncan stood up, shrugging back into his still-wet coat and tossing some banknotes on the table. He waited while Sandy retrieved his leather jacket and put down a generous tip for Morag and then they were out the door together, Duncan’s hand hovering over the small of Sandy’s back. They found an unengaged taxi on the Esplanade and climbed into the back seat, sitting too close together in the little Italian car, so that Duncan’s thigh pressed against Sandy’s side and his cock throbbed and made its wishes known.

The cab dropped them outside Duncan’s bistro, and Duncan led him up the outside stairs to the flat above. “Right in here. Good thing I left the heat on, eh? They’re saying there’ll be snow before morning.” Sandy watched him intently, his gaze riveted to Duncan’s face, as if Duncan was telling him some universal truth that would change the future of mankind, and as soon as Duncan stopped talking, Sandy stepped towards him, clasped Duncan’s face between his palms and kissed him.

It was one hell of a kiss, and when it finally ended, Duncan was weak in the knees and his painfully swollen cock was pressing against the zipper of his jeans. He swayed forward, stroked a thumb over Sandy’s bottom lip, and returned the favour until the young policeman was moaning into Duncan’s open mouth. “I wish you’d just take me to bed,” Sandy whispered, “because I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I mean that.” 

Duncan took his hand and tugged him towards the bedroom, stopping to kiss him as they went, tearing at each other’s clothes, peeling off rain-sodden shirts and dropping the wet garments on the floor. Sandy pushed him backwards so that Duncan sat down hard on the bed, and he knelt and slipped Duncan’s shoes and socks off, pulled his wet jeans down his legs until he was flat on his back, quivering, naked except for his underpants.

There was a mature seriousness about Sandy that took Duncan by surprise, as he leaned over to flick the tip of his tongue against each of Duncan’s nipples in turn, teasing first one and then the other before licking a fiery trail down the centre of Duncan’s naked chest. When Duncan reached for him, Sandy slapped his hands away and straddled him, moving his pelvis in slow, deliberate circles so that their still-clothed cocks rubbed against each other, maddening. Duncan arched his back, desperate for more of the contact he craved, and Sandy suddenly stopped, gazing down at him with those incredible blue eyes. “I want to fuck you,” he murmured, in a husky, throaty voice. “Can I fuck you?” He climbed off long enough to remove his briefs, then was back on top of Duncan again, cradling Duncan’s hips between his inner thighs, his cock, blood-heavy, the tip wet with pre-come, resting against Duncan’s belly.

“Ye-yes.” Duncan had to swallow twice before the words would come. “Yes. There’s…in the bedside table. Blue tube.” 

Sandy pulled Duncan’s underwear down and off, then leaned forward to suck the very tip of Duncan’s cock into his mouth. “Oh, sweet _Christ!_ ” Duncan said, keening aloud and nearly coming. Sandy drew away, lips wet with Duncan’s pre-come, and sat back on his heels to study him. He reached for one of Duncan’s hands and held it to his mouth, sucking the fingers rhythmically, cheeks hollowing, long lashes fanned against his cheeks. He flipped open the lube and spread some on his fingers, sliding his index finger into Duncan’s entrance and unerringly finding his prostate on the first try. “I’m gonna⸻” His thighs shuddered with the effort of holding back his orgasm but the flood of sensation was too much for him, and he came in great, throbbing bursts that left him trembling and breathless, rendered blind and voiceless by pleasure. Sandy’s fingers were inside him, stroking him to readiness, and he was dimly aware of the younger man rolling a condom over his swollen cock before pressing the blunt head against Duncan’s opening. Duncan opened for him, spreading himself wide, gasping as Sandy slid inside, and then he was there, sparking a second fire deep inside Duncan’s body, this time burning hotter than the first. “Oh God,” Duncan gasped, “fuck me.” He watched, fascinated, as Sandy’s pleasure overtook him, how his strokes stuttered and faltered, his body giving itself over to climax.

“God⸻fuck⸻oh fuck⸻” And then Sandy was there, shouting his release as a powerful orgasm took him in its teeth and shook him. He arched his back and pounded into Duncan a final time before collapsing down, his head resting against Duncan’s shoulder.

The world outside turned a time or two as they shuddered down into sanity again. Sandy’s softening cock slipped out of Duncan’s body and he slid the condom off, knotted it and dropped it into the bin beside the bed. He went back into Duncan’s arms, and Duncan pulled the duvet over them both as they held each other there in the darkness, and for the first time in a very long time he wasn’t so alone. He was with Alexander Wilson, and they had given each other something ineffable and precious that could exist only inside these walls, away from prying eyes.

When Duncan woke the next morning Sandy was gone. He’d left a note on the kitchen table: _You were amazing. Thank you._ Reading it, Duncan smiled to himself, wondered if Sandy would be amenable to a second go-round and perhaps they could make a proper date of it this time, dinner and wine somewhere nice in Lerwick instead of tea and whisky in The Lounge in the middle of the night.

He was on a job site in Bressay several days later, doing some restoration work on the lighthouse, when his mobile phone pinged with an incoming text message. _I’ve got some leave coming,_ it read, _feel up to a dirty weekend?_

Of course it was from Sandy. Of course Duncan said yes. He’d be a fool not to, and Duncan Hunter might be a lot of things, but a fool he was not.

He’d scarcely replied in the affirmative when his mobile rang. “Hello,” Sandy said. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Interrupt all your like,” Duncan said. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted you to hear it from me.”

“Right.” Maybe it was bad news. Maybe Sandy had decided he was satisfied with a one-night stand and that was fine by Duncan. There were no strings attached. He had no claim on Sandy. He knew that.

“I can’t wait to see you again.”

The words made a pleasant little frisson inside Duncan’s belly. “Is that so?”

“Aye,” Sandy confirmed, his voice warm, affectionate, coming across the miles. “It is. It is indeed.”


End file.
